Baby by Design dl-1 Page 11

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Trish had been to dozens of Corcarelli family functions over the years, but always as Angie’s guest. Going with Tony was going to be weird. But if she was gutsy enough to make a baby with him, she better be gutsy enough to face his family while hanging on his arm. Nonna and Mrs. Corcarelli might find it strange. Vin might be hostile. She could handle that.

  Mostly, Trish was worried about Angie.

  “I’ll deal with my sister,” Tony said, like he could read her mind. But he couldn’t, he probably saw her staring at the picture of Angie and her in Cabo last year.

  Now Trish couldn’t get Angie to follow her across town, let alone out of the country, and the distance between them weighed heavy in Trish’s bones, making her tired enough to let Tony fight this battle with his sister. But that wasn’t fair to him. Angie and Tony’s relationship was already strained. He didn’t need Trish and her cockamamie plan making things worse.

  “Technically I got you into this mess, so I’ll be the one to smooth things over with Ange,” Trish said, hiding a yawn behind her hand. “I may not look like it now, but I’m a formidable negotiator.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I know what you’re capable of.” His hand rested on the granite inches from hers, and she had the irrational hope he would touch her. Irrational because he’d touched her enough—this month anyway. Wanting him to touch her more was overindulgent and a one-way ticket to messy, considering the way he confused her plans and left her feeling chaotic. She stared at his tanned hand until her vision blurred, wishing messy wasn’t also attractive.

  “So, are we going to watch this thing or what?” Tony said, moving his hand away from Trish’s.

  She blinked and then saw him carrying a plate of pizza toward the couch. Disappointment reigned, but it was better than guilt or regret, two emotions that would be in high supply if she succumbed to basic desire while her friendship with Angie was floundering and Stu was back in town. Stu. She should’ve called him back and told him…what?

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Tony asked as he sat.

  That was when she realized she was shuffling toward the couch with nothing but the two-liter of soda in hand. “Of course, I…” she lifted the bottle, “I was wondering if you wanted some.”

  He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Nah. That’s for you. My cousin drank it while she was pregnant, so I figured it was safe in case…you know…you’re pregnant, too.” He shrugged and bit into his pizza, working the dough with a mouth that mesmerized her, from the perfectly pale lips to the dark dip in his cheek. “I also figured you had beer left from the other night, so I’ll grab one of those.”

  He wanted a beer. After her earlier thoughts about beer being an antidote for nerves and a booster of vulgar behavior, she wondered if it was possible he only came tonight to eat and drink. She was thinking too much, wasn’t she? It was just a beer, for God’s sake.

  Trish inhaled away her stupor and turned toward the kitchen.

  “Hey. Ho. Sit. You don’t have to wait on me. Power up your prissy show, and I’ll be back.” He sauntered past with a delicious smile and a piece of pizza in hand.

  For a man who was nowhere near her perfect fit, he sure had moments when she wished he was.

  An hour later, with the lights dim, and her legs crossed at the ankles as they rested on the cushion beside her, she realized Tony was the perfect fit for her oversized couch—a couch he’d upholstered a year ago, which he pointed out. Not that she needed the reminder. Ever since her cousin’s wedding she was acutely aware of the pieces of Tony Corcarelli upholstery littering her house. It was like a part of him was always here.

  She’d spent the last ten minutes watching him watch the television. A slow smile played on his face except when he was drinking his beer. She liked having more than his furniture around. She liked having him. His presence made the place homier. She wished she didn’t feel that way, not about him. This house was made for a family, but Tony wasn’t exactly a family man. He loved his family, but they seemed to be enough. She had no doubt he’d love a child if they managed to create one, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t looking for a wife, which was fine because Trish wasn’t necessarily looking for a husband, not right now, and not a husband like him.

  Tony wrapped a warm hand around her bare ankle and squeezed, causing her to jump.

  He chuckled. “Apparently you think this crap is boring too, because you’re staring at me instead of the TV.”

  She looked at the screen, where nothing registered in her cloudy head. “I’m sorry. I’m…tired.” She yawned liked she’d done throughout the evening, but this time was more for show.

  He angled his body so he was facing her instead of the television, his hand remaining hot on her skin. “Could that be a sign?”

  “A sign that I work and worry too much, yes. A sign that I’m pregnant, no.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “So you don’t think it worked?”

  At first, the furrow of his brow came as a surprise to Trish, but then she remembered his reason for being disappointed. Nonna. Not Trish. Not the baby. Not a family to fill this house.

  “I just think it’s too soon to know. Maybe it worked.”

  He nodded again, but the furrow didn’t fade.

  “How is Nonna?” Without her easy connection to Angie, information was limited.

  “There’s fluid.” Tony squeezed her ankle again. “She’s tired. Uncomfortable. It’s not looking good.”

  “I’m sorry.” Trish had said it too many times where Nonna was concerned. It had probably lost its impact by now, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Me too.” He slid his hand to her calf, milking the muscle as he stared over the top of her head.

  Minutes dragged, with Trish afraid to move. She looked at the television, hoping to settle her heart’s erratic beat, but her head throbbed, her hip cramped, her chest strained. She wanted to open her mouth and deep breathe. She wanted to shift her weight off her aching hip. But she didn’t want to distract him. Something in the heavy air told her what might help, what could happen next.

  And then he lunged forward, grabbing the remote control. “I’m done with this.”

  Without the flickering of the TV, the room grew darker. Only the pendant lighting from the kitchen cast a soft glow.

  Tony’s hand shifted down her leg until once again he held tight to her ankle. “I think we should do it again.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.” He pulled her leg from beneath her, eradicating any chance of her heartbeat returning to normal.

  He straightened her other leg, and Trish shifted so her weight distributed between her butt and mid-back, pressing into the pillows. He moved closer, slipping a hand along her outer thigh, and all she could think about was having sex on a sofa he’d upholstered. Talk about irony. Talk about lunacy. She was getting carried away when she already had more than she could handle. “But Tony, maybe once was…”

  “Not enough.” He was above her now, bracing his weight on his arms, which straddled her, gripping the back and arm of the couch. “Don’t tell me it was enough. I know basic biology.”

  She released a shaky breath and inhaled spice and beer. The familiar scent she’d come to associate with him revved her libido. Basic biology. Right? Well, biologically speaking, having unprotected sex more often around the time of ovulation did increase one’s chances of conceiving, and since that was what they were trying to do, it did made sense. He made sense.

  But then his warm, soft lips brushed hers, and nothing made sense anymore.

  * * *

  Tony was probably going to regret this. He’d never been an emotional sex kind of man. Years ago, he made a pact with himself to never be with a woman when he was feeling particularly high or low for fear that he’d associate her with joy or comfort. That sort of neediness crippled a man. Just ask Vin. And yet, here was Tony, torn up inside, wanting Trish to take away his pain. That was why he was planting kisses down her n
eck, wasn’t it? Then again, long before the conversation turned to Nonna he’d been thinking about doing this, touching Trish in all the ways he felt oddly entitled to do.

  He wasn’t entitled to anything. She wasn’t his. So why did she feel made for him to hold?

  “Tony,” she whispered into the breathy quiet of the room. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”

  “Maybe,” he answered with his lips against her throat. But then she slid her hands beneath his shirttails, and he decided they weren’t going anywhere.

  Capturing her mouth with his, he tasted her with his tongue. Sweet like soda. Hot like sex. And then her fingernails bit his back, causing him to groan and release more of his weight onto the cushion of her thighs.

  She roamed his back in chaos, pawing and clawing and driving him deeper into her mouth. He wanted to touch her too, but the bulky sweatshirt stopped him, until on a grunt, he broke the kiss and pushed to his knees, whipping his shirt over his head. “Now you.”

  She planted her hands against his abdomen, every wiggle of her fingers making him harder. “Not this again.”

  He was already tugging the hem of her sweatshirt over her belly. “Not what again?”

  “The striptease act. I hardly think it’ll be worth it with the lights off.” Her fingers teased his stomach until they reached the button on his pants.

  “We’ll see about that.” He yanked the sweatshirt above her breasts and buried his face in her cleavage. She smelled like springtime, and tasted like the warmest, sweetest dessert. This time, he was going to…

  “Doorbell,” she hissed, sitting with enough force to launch him off her chest. “Shoot.”

  She scrambled to stand, leaving him sitting with his head in his hands, a hard-on in his pants, and the thought that the people she knew needed some manners.

  “Oh God. I can’t tell who that is,” she said from her crouch in the kitchen.

  “Leave it,” Tony growled in frustration.

  “I can’t. What if it’s important?” She ran her fingers through her rumpled hair and sighed. “Why does this always happen to us?”

  “Because your friends and family are rude. They should call first.”

  The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock. “I’m going to answer it. Put your shirt on.” And she disappeared.

  Tony leaned his back against the couch and mouthed an expletive into the darkness. There was a message in this, wasn’t there? Ma would say God was trying to tell him something, but damned if Tony could ever figure that sort of thing out. Maybe God didn’t want him messing with Trish any more than Angie wanted him to. Why did Tony find it so hard to do what other people wanted him to do?

  A deep voice ripped through his wonderings. He couldn’t make out the words, but he was sure they were being said by a man. Standing, Tony crept into the kitchen and crouched beside the refrigerator, holding his breath for the best chance at sound.

  “I’m sorry. It was impulsive. I shouldn’t have come. You’re obviously ill…or something,” the man said.

  “No, I…Stu, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I was...”

  “Sick. I can see that,” the man said. “Why don’t you head back to bed and I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Despite the dread rolling in his stomach at the overly familiar words, Tony nearly laughed. The guy was a douche bag. Trish wasn’t sick, but Tony would happily take her back to bed.

  “Maybe I can bring you some chicken soup and a bottle of pinot noir. How does that sound?” the man asked.

  How did it sound? Awful, Tony thought, and then the dread in his gut ripped through his chest cavity like the bottle rocket he and Vin once put in Angie’s birthday piñata. A teenage Tony lost privileges for a whole month because of that.

  He wasn’t coming out the loser tonight.

  Tony stepped into the center hall before Trish answered the man. “Hey, babe. Everything okay?”

  She spun like a demonic top, eyes wide, face red, hair escaping its band, and then her jaw dropped, probably when she saw Tony hadn’t put on his shirt like she’d asked. He would’ve felt bad for shocking her if he wasn’t blazing non-verbal threats from the center of his eyes at the stuffed suit on her porch.

  “Oh, I see,” said The Suit with a side part in his hair.

  “Stu, I…” she turned to The Suit and then back to Tony again. “Can you give me a minute?”

  Tony nodded, never taking his eyes off The Suit, never taking one step outside of the hall.

  “Not necessary,” The Suit said, shuffling backward off the porch. “It was good seeing you again. Hope you feel better soon. Tell your mother I said hello. Enjoy your evening. Again, my apologies.”

  There was nothing worse than a grown man babbling.

  When Trish called out a good-bye and shut the door, Tony meant to relax, mission accomplished and all that, but then she turned on him with the same shock from before.

  “What was that?” she cried. “What were you doing?”

  “Helping you.” Okay, now he wasn’t so sure, but it seemed like a good idea five minutes ago. “That guy’s a jerk.”

  “You don’t even know him,” she yelled.

  Tony flinched at the hurt in her voice. Obviously, The Suit was someone important. Tony didn’t like the feel of that. “I know all I need to know about him from that conversation. Ill? He thought you were sick?”

  “Because I’m a mess.” She pulled her sweatshirt away from her body, and then plowed hands through her unraveled hair. Strands kinked in spots where braids had been.

  “Oh yeah? Well, I think you’re beautiful, no matter what you’re wearing.” He grinned. “Although I prefer you naked, which you would be right now if that moron hadn’t barged in. But you know what? I’m glad he stopped by, because now maybe he’ll go out into your world and let everyone know we’re busy, and they shouldn’t stop by without calling us first.”

  She gasped and backed against the door. For a moment he thought her legs were going to give out, so he walked to her. “What? What’d I say?”

  “Don’t,” she said, lifting her palms, signaling for him to stop before he reached her.

  “Why?”

  “You’re making this too complicated.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Yes. It’s always what you’re doing.” She clenched her fists. “There is no us, Tony. We can’t be beyond what we hoped to accomplish by having a baby.”

  “Why? Because of him?”

  She froze, mouth as wide as her eyes. Tony didn’t know where he was going with this line of questioning, and he didn’t know why he wanted to go there. He didn’t want we and us anymore than she did. This was about a baby. No more. No less.

  “You should go,” she said, stepping aside from the door.

  “I should.” But he didn’t. He stood there, staring at her flushed face, wishing to God he could say or do something to make this right. And in a few silent seconds, he knew there was nothing he could do.

  Stuffed suit, side part, proper talker Stu—Tony nearly choked as the name flashed in his brain—that guy was right for Trish’s world. Tony was wrong. Oh sure, he was good enough to make her baby, but he wasn’t good enough to be her man. Not that he wanted the job.

  “Why aren’t you going?” She stared back at him, arms folded across her chest, like she was trying to cover her heart or wished he would cover his.

  “I need my shirt.”

  “Then get it.”

  He nodded and made his way through the house to the family room, littered with pieces of their evening. Pizza box. Beer bottles. DVD case. His shirt. Why did this suck like a breakup? They were never together to be pulled apart. He was acting like a girl. So what if he didn’t get laid? Big deal. There were more mermaids in the sea.

  “I’ll call you.”

  He grabbed his shirt off the floor, and then turned to see her standing in the kitchen. Soft light from a nearby pendant sparkled in her copper hair. She was wringing her hands and lo
oking so lost, he wanted nothing more than to hold her until they forgot every unpleasant thing.

  “I’ll call you about the table and Nonna’s concert,” she continued. “If…you still want to do those things.”

  What was he supposed to say? He nodded, shrugged into his shirt and pushed past her despite the urge to draw her near. Holding her wouldn’t change anything. In fact, it would probably only make one thing clear.

  Tony wanted more than a baby with Trish, but that was out of the question.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tony glanced around Nonna’s dining table at the somber faces sucking pasta into less-than-talkative mouths. Sunday dinner didn’t feel like Sunday dinner anymore, what with Nonna wasting away at the end of the table and Angie barely talking to him.

  Today was the day of the car presentation, and Angie didn’t even ask him to wipe down the leather. No biggie, he thought as he sucked a piece of spaghetti into his own quiet mouth. Nonna didn’t notice his workmanship. There was no way she could’ve seen a detail through all those bittersweet tears.

  While Ma and Aunt Connie took Nonna to lie down, Tony helped his other aunts clear off the table. He was looking forward to their chatter about shopping and thick-headed men, but it never came. They talked about Nonna getting sicker, and Tony couldn’t wait to get away. The minute the last dirty plate hit the laminate counter, he set out in search of Vin.

  It figured Vin was with Angie, standing alongside Nonna’s Cadillac.

  “What’s going on in there?” Vin asked, while Angie turned her back to Tony and polished the fender with her sleeve.

  Tony swallowed his ever-present discomfort. “The same.”

  “Moping.”

  Tony nodded.

  “And that’s why we’re out here,” Vin said.

  Angie lifted her head. “I’m going to check on Ma.” Like a typical woman, she left the men tossing in the wake of her moodiness.

  “She’s upset. Emotional day,” Vin soothed.

  Vin was six-feet, five-inches of former Marine. He didn’t soothe. At least he didn’t soothe well.